A Game of Sorcery
by Praetor Urbanus
Summary: On October 31st 1981, Harry Potter seemed to die in an explosion of never-before-seen magic. In the 284th year after the Targaryan Conquest, Harold Baratheon is born, with black hair and emerald green eyes. Trained to succeed Tywin Lannister as Lord of Casterly Rock, Warden of the West, and Hand of the King, how will Harry face the challenges of the Wizarding world? Continuation.
1. Chapter 1

Author's Intro:

I finally got some inspiration for this story idea. Expect updates to be slow, as this is not my main story right now.

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter or Game of Thrones. If I did, I would be too busy living the high life to write fanfiction. *sighs in sorrow over what could have been*

 **Chapter 1**

Harold of House Baratheon blinked furiously. He'd been up till all hours of the morning discussing the politics of the Seven Kingdoms with his grandfather, Tywin Lannister. The material had absorbed his attention so much that he had only retired to his chambers after the candle they were using had burnt out. _How does that manipulative old man make politics so fun? My father never had this kind of appreciation for the Game.  
_  
He sat up and stretched his arms. Today was his four-and-tenth Nameday! He was finally old enough to handle some of his duties without his grandfather hovering over him. He was also of proper age to be married. He'd met some of the young Highborn girls in the realm, and not many had impressed him. That young Tyrell girl, Margaery, was one of the few to actually prove she had the mind and spirit to become a Lady of the Westerlands. She had given him the nickname of Harry after failing to pronounce Harold for the third time seven years prior.

Harold dressed in the livery expected of the heir of Casterly Rock, which was a blend of red, gold, and black cloth. He knew he cut an impressive figure, even for a prince. His body was toned from long hours of training with the sword, longbow, lance, and twin daggers. His hair was black as night, much like his father's, and cut long so he could avoid the wildness it seemed to have when shorter. He was quite annoyed at that, as some of the people he'd met in his earlier years had seen his styled, shoulder-length locks and thought he was a girl. His eyes were his most striking feature; they were emerald green, usually gleaming with his intelligence, and blazed with fire whenever he used his powers.

That had actually been quite a surprise when discovered. When he was three, his older brother Joffery had broken one of his favorite toys. After the cruel beast left the room, laughing, Harry cried, felt something flare up in his stomach, and then saw his toy as good as new. Soon after, their mother, Cersei Lannister, caught Joffrey taunting Harry about something or other, only to end up with blue-colored hair that just refused to stop growing or be cut. His humiliated older sibling got a reprieve only when he apologized to Harry, and had largely left him alone since.

Attired as he was expected to, Harry went down to breakfast. Tywin was there, embroiled in debate about what sounded like farms. Harold listened carefully, as he had been taught, while waiting for his morning meal. Once the food was placed in front of him, he ate it in the manner used by all Lords of the Realm, examining the topic of discussion in his mind. The farmers near Silverhill were apparently having problems with bandits stealing their crops, and had requested protection. The knights dispatched had disappeared without a trace, and none of the locals had even seen them. The same thing happened to the second band of knights sent out.

Harold thought he could see a solution. "Excuse me, Grandfather. I believe that there is a possibility that I have not heard from either of you."

The Lord of Casterly Rock raised an eyebrow. "What possibility would that be, Harold?"

Harold replied carefully, to ensure that he was not misunderstood. "The knights sent to root out these bandits disappeared without a trace. This fact indicates that the bandits are unusually well-armed and trained; they would have been slaughtered otherwise. Since the farmers reported no bandits equipped to deal with knights, one could logically say that the farmers might be in league with the bandits. For what purpose, if true, I can only speculate. The most probable is that the knights' armor and weapons are being sold for gold, in which case, the farmers likely receive a small portion of the proceeds."

Tywin Lannister looked pensive, and a little disturbed, even if none but Harry could see the discomfort. "And what happens to the knights themselves?"

"I see two possibilities: one, they are killed immediately, two, they are secretly ransomed back to their families. The latter would be the more profitable option, as it would raise more gold, but the risks are higher. The former seems to have the greater support, as I have not heard anyone say that one or more of the knights were found yet."

Harry gave himself a wholly internal pat on the back as his grandfather turned to the other lord. "I want you to send spies to observe markets for armor and weapons. Blacksmiths could sell stolen goods, claiming to have made them, without raising suspicion. Try to confirm my grandson's theory."

The other lord bowed and left, looking somewhat bewildered. _Apparently he is unaccustomed to being out-thought by a man not even old enough to rule alone_ , Harold thought with a bit of smugness. Most people reacted that way to him when he started dancing intellectual circles around them. It seemed that his young age led others to discount any contribution he might make. Of course, he proved them all wrong. He knew he always would.

Many of the lords who he'd embarrassed with his intelligence became somewhat resentful of him, calling him arrogant. One of the Septas had even taken up the refrain, telling him on several occasions that he should watch his arrogance, lest he come to trouble by men or the gods, but he always had the same retort: _It's not arrogance if you have the mind to back it up._

Tywin Lannister wore the face of a satisfied man. "Harold, you do our family proud. You are as perceptive as Lord Varys, as cunning as Lord Baelish, and as well-suited to play the Game as I was at your age. I believe that one day you will make a fine Hand of the King for your brother."

"Thank you, Grandfather."

The rest of the meal passed in relative silence.

After handling some of his duties as Warden of the West, the Lord of House Lannister and his grandson, the prince, took a walk in the gardens. "How are your studies progressing?"

Harry answered easily. "Better. I have made more progress controlling my gift in the past two years trying to replicate the myths and legends than I did in five years with all the tomes and scrolls in the Citadel." He paused. "I think that may have had something to do with the decline of magic."

As usual for these discussions, Tywin was intrigued; "How do you mean?"

"Think about it. Sorcerers and wizards stopped writing down the secrets of the arcane arts centuries or millennia ago. Otherwise, the tomes on the subject wouldn't be completely useless. That made it harder for anyone with the gift to learn to harness it outside of direct apprenticeship. As it is difficult to get apprenticeships outside an organization like the Maesters, the number of students studying magic must have shrunk. As they had not studied, fewer and fewer people could use their gifts. This process continued until magic became as scarce as it is today."

Tywin smiled. Harry didn't see him do that often, but when he did, he meant it. "Yes. That makes perfect sense. How would someone go about disproving you?"

Harry pondered for a few minutes, wondering what was wrong with his theory. Then it came to him. "By searching for records of a witch hunt or similar violent struggle against magic-users. If there had been such a movement, it would have taken great pains to wipe out the things necessary for learning magic, including any tomes written by ancient sorcerers. That might also help explain why people today fear magic if they believe in it at all; the witch hunters may have re-written the myths to show only the harsh, cruel side of magic in order to dissuade later generations from pursuing studies of the arcane."

Tywin and Harry continued their conversation and their walk through the gardens. As per custom with these two, they both had a productive and stimulating time. They were so embroiled in their discussions that the castle's servants had to put their lunch in front of them right there. Neither one really noticed it, even when they began eating. Those who delivered the meal had long since grown accustomed to this, and chuckled about it as usual.

***Scene Break***

Later that day, the current and future lords of Casterly Rock returned to the castle proper. They did, after all, have a Nameday celebration to attend.

The guest list had a number of prominent families of the Westerlands on it, most in attendance. They all wished him a very happy Nameday and great profit in the coming year. It was all very boring and perfunctory, but Harold knew that he would be expected to put up with worse people in the Capital as Hand of the King, so he really had no cause to complain.

The first guest to actually get a genuine reaction from the young prince was Margaery Tyrell, escorted by her Grandmother, Olenna formerly of House Redwyne.

"Good evening, your Grace! A most happy Nameday to you!"

The princess of Highgarden curtsying before him was most certainly a beauty. Her soft brown hair fell in ringlets down her back, some framing her welcoming and distractingly radiant face. Her eyes sparkled with her strong intellect and her gentle kindness as they had when he last visited her home. Her dress displayed her every curve, and was cut low enough that Harry began to think that their grandparents had decided to match them in the sight of the gods. _A man could certainly get used to seeing_ her _in the morning._

"A pleasure to see you as always, Lady Margaery, Lady Olenna. Casterly Rock is made brighter by your presence," Harry replied with a nod of the head. He preferred Margaery to call him by name, but he could forgive the title on such a formal occasion.

She giggled. She always noticed it when someone checked her out, as her closest male friend outside the family just had. "You are too kind, your Grace. I hope I might see you at Highgarden for my own Nameday two months from now?"

"Of course, My Lady. Not even a direct order from the Iron Throne could keep me away."

They continued to flirt for a few more minutes, both aware of their guardians observing them, most likely waiting for the moment to tell them that they had been betrothed. The two youngsters had been friends for over seven years now, exchanging visits and ravens, so neither one had any objection to the notion. Harry thought that he'd probably pick Margaery to be his wife anyway. Who better to marry than his best female friend, after all?

Harry's next favorite guest, by far, was his uncle, Tyrion. The man was shorter than Harry, and much less attractive, but their minds were equally matched. The Imp could discuss politics as shrewdly as his father, without the baggage of excessive cynicism. He was also much more fun to joke with.

"Beloved nephew!" Tyrion half-shouted as he entered the Great Hall. "You look as intelligent as ever."

"And you look like you've had your nose in the folds of a very good book all day, Uncle," Harry cheekily replied.

The Half-man laughed. "I have indeed been devouring something delicious. It was, however, disappointing in its conversation."

When Tyrion and Harold had first met nine years previous, the youngest son of Tywin Lannister had been bitter at having his rightful inheritance stolen from under him. Tyrion knew that his father abhorred the thought of leaving Casterly Rock to a depraved little lust-filled beast like him, and would likely bestow it upon his grandson. Harry had been disappointed in that meeting, and then resolved to make the relationship better.

He had succeeded. He engaged his uncle as an intellectual giant of a man, whose mind was worth getting to know. He also bet one night in a Braavosi brothel that one of them would act as Lord of Casterly Rock and the other as Hand of the King, but he couldn't tell which one would take which role. Tyrion had laughed at that, and they had since become quite good friends.

Harry chuckled at his uncle. _The man is so delightfully debauched, I can't help but wonder what will do him in: a night with two whores competing for his gold, or getting accidentally knocked out the window by them.  
_  
Once the carefully-scripted dance of greeting his guests was complete, and everyone had found a seat, Tywin Lannister stood up.

"Attention! As you are all aware, this is my grandson's four-and-tenth Nameday!"

The guests cheered and clapped. Then the Lord of the Westerlands raised his hand for silence, which was provided.

"Harold Baratheon is now ready to assume some of the duties he will one day hold as Lord of Casterly Rock. I am quite sure that he will perform admirably." He paused for more cheering. "He is also ready to be married. After much deliberation, it has been decided that Harold of House Baratheon will wed Margaery of House Tyrell!"

The crowd went wild. Many of the Highborn guests knew something about the prince's friendship with the prettiest rose in Highgarden, and were not very surprised.

Harry and Margaery had sat together for the feast, so they turned to each other and smiled. They had both expected this. He held out his hand, which she took, then brought it to his lips to kiss her knuckles. They stood up in unison, and the assembled guests roared out their approval.

The feast was delicious, as befitting a Great House of Westeros. Food flowed like the fine wine, leaving every guest sated and merry. Though Harry sometimes thought such lavish celebrations were wasteful, he would never complain about the quality of the offerings.

About half way through the party, a servant walked up to the head table, a letter clutched in his hand. "Pardon, milords, but this arrived for the young Prince." Harry looked somewhat confused. Letters were rather rare in the Seven Kingdoms. "And who delivered it?"

The servant said, nervously, "An owl, milord. I tried to shoo it off, but it's still over there. I think it's waiting for a reply."

Sure enough, there was a large brown-feathered bird sitting on the windowsill. It looked rather impatient, Harold thought, for him to open the correspondence. "All right, give it here." The servant handed him the letter.

The envelope seemed to have his place of residence on it, accurate to such an extent that whoever sent it had to have impeccable sources of information. The name was quite wrong, though.

 _Mr. Harry Potter_

 _The bedchamber in the North Tower, fourth floor_

 _Casterly Rock_

 _The Westerlands_

Thoroughly confused by the address in green ink, Harry broke the wax seal on the envelope and took out two pieces of parchment, both much heavier than what was typically used for ravens.

 _Mr. Potter,_

 _We are delighted to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Enclosed is a list of books, equipment, and other materials all first years will need. Term begins on the first of September. Due to certain unusual circumstances, this letter will act as a portkey to the Leaky Cauldron, where a member of the staff will be waiting to guide you._

 _Yours sincerely,_

 _M. McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress_

Harry looked up from the letter, a look of befuddlement on his face, but he barely had time to meet his grandfather's eyes before he felt a hard tug in his midriff. He thought he heard his bride-to-be scream in shock. He seemed to be spinning, the letter clutched in his hand tightly enough to wrinkle the sheet of parchment. He wondered how long this uncomfortable sensation would last.

No sooner than that thought passed into his conscious mind, he landed hard on his arse. He still felt dizzy, and he still had the letter in his hands. His Valyrian Steel daggers, too, were still sheathed in his boots. He felt somehow smaller than he had been, and his muscles less well-developed. His clothes seemed to fit less well than they were supposed to. He suspected in what he half-thought madness that he had become younger than his four-and-ten years.

Clutching the hilts of his only weapons, ready for action, he looked up. Right in front of him he saw a woman who could pass as a Septa with ease and a positive giant of a man, both smiling at him. _In the name of the Seven, what have I gotten myself into?_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Chapter 2**_

Despite the clear differences in his circumstances, his training kicked in. His grandfather had once told him that missing something, regardless of the situation, could be disastrous. So he observed his surroundings.

 _Low lighting, smoke clouds, a quiet buzz of conversation, all indicate that I am in a tavern. Probably the Leaky Cauldron mentioned in the letter. "Portkey" must refer to a method of magical travel; strange that I have never encountered such a thing in any of the old tales._

Then he turned his attention to the people smiling down at him. The first was a woman, past her five-and-fiftieth Nameday by Harold's reckoning, dressed in a green robe that covered her whole body below her neck. Perched on her head sat a broad brimmed but obviously female hat, black in color with a pointed top. Her grey-framed face showed that, if she wasn't smiling at him, she could put any Septa to shame. _Based on her age and bearing, this might be Deputy Headmistress M. McGonagall; she certainly looks severe enough to be connected to education. Smile appears more relieved than anything; possibly related to the unusual circumstances mentioned in her letter._

The other person looking at him was much bigger. Even the Mountain would be dwarfed by this man. His hair was black, much like Harold's, but much bushier than his own had ever been. He stood at over eleven feet tall, so he could look down his nose at either of the Clegane brothers with ease. His girth was equally impressive; the surprising part was that it suited him, as if meant to be part of him. _I guess this means those old tales of giants are more than just tales. He looks like he could break down one of the gates of Casterly Rock alone, given proper cover against archers on the walls._

"Good to finally see you, Mister Potter. I am Minerva McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress of Hogwarts. This is Rubeus Hagrid, Keeper of Keys and Grounds at Hogwarts. We worried we might not be able to reach you, the portkey charm took so much to make."

 _That's strange; I can detect no falsehood in her. She truly is relieved._

Harold stood up, carefully concealing his drawn daggers in the cloak he wore to his Nameday celebration, to greet her. There was no sense in not being polite, after all. It might even allow him to escape without drawing blood.

"I am Harold, of the House Baratheon, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. I have never even heard of Hogwarts, let alone sought out apprenticeship through it. Since you did not get my name right, either in the letter or now, I conclude that you are looking for someone else. Please return me to my grandfather's castle."

Both of the welcoming committee stopped cold at that. The possible giant had such a shocked expression on his face that Harold would have laughed in any other circumstances. Deputy Headmistress McGonagall looked a bit distressed, as if uncomfortable.

"The letter was tied to your magical signature, as all are; it could not have reached you unless you are in fact Mr. Harry Potter. I do not know where your grandfather's castle is, so I can't send you back. Where are these 'Seven Kingdoms' you mentioned?"

Harold narrowed his eyes a bit. Even the least well-traveled Essossi had heard of the Seven Kingdoms.

"Your letter referred to a Leaky Cauldron, which I assume to be this establishment, but where in the world are we? Are we in Westeros or Essos? Or are we in Sothoryos, perhaps?"

The Deputy Headmistress looked her confusion. "I am afraid there are no such continents. You are in the nation of Great Britain, commonly considered part of Europe. Are you telling me that you don't know anything of Earth's geography?"

The Prince of the Seven Kingdoms considered her words and the circumstances of this event. Only his long years of practice concealing his emotions behind a mask of calm rationality allowed him to remain standing, the thoughts in his head disturbed him so.

"We are clearly from different worlds, as I do not recognize any of the names you have just mentioned any more than you seemed to recognize those I have. Since you mentioned the name Harry Potter in connection to me, am I to understand that I existed once in this world?"

The woman nodded.

"You were born Harry James Potter, on July 31st, 1980, to James Charles Potter and his wife Lily Marie Potter, née Evans. Your parents died on October 31st, 1981, when a dark wizard entered their home and destroyed it. It was believed that you had been claimed in the explosion, as everyone else in the house at the time. Your survival was not known until Headmaster Dumbledore glanced at the Class of 1997 Roster of Students and saw that your name was still green as all the others. If you had actually perished, the color of your ink would have turned black."

Harold narrowed his eyes at her again. _If I was born here, eleven years ago, to my reckoning, then how did I come to be born in the Red Keep fourteen years ago?_

He did not voice the question, knowing better than to give away something like that. He'd already said more than he strictly should in his disorientation at being in a different world.

He did, however, ask a question. "I presume that you have proof of this claim? I should very much like to see it."

She smiled, seeming to think that the battle was won. "Of course. I was quite good friends with your parents after they graduated from Hogwarts, and kept a number of the photographs of that happier time."

Harold accepted the book she handed him and opened it to the first page. There were pictures of several people in it, which he assumed to be what she referred to as photographs. They _moved_. _Pictures don't move! Wait, this is probably some sort of magic; though what its purpose might be I cannot even guess at._

The first of them showed a black-haired young man dancing with a redheaded young woman, both clearly laughing with joy, as they exchanged loving looks. The man looked quite a bit like Harold, most strikingly in the hair, which was the same shade as his own and just as untamable. He saw in the woman his emerald green eyes, alight with intelligence. That had always puzzled people, as none of Houses Baratheon or Lannister had his green eyes, able to scare even a Kingsguard when they burned with magic.

 _If these 'photographs' are at all accurate, then perhaps I did originate in this world_ , Harry thought. _I still don't understand how I could be born here, then be born of Cersei Lannister, and then return here, but I can work on that._

He turned the page, looking at the other pictures. There seemed to be more of his father than of his mother, and he was frequently accompanied by three other men. The one to his immediate left in most of the pictures had black hair, like James, but sleeker and more refined in style, like Harry's when he grew it long. The one to his supposed father's right seemed somewhat haggard, his dirty blond hair and robes ragged. The third was very akin to a rat, in that he was small and timid in action. Harry supposed that these three had been his father's closest friends.

"The man to your father's right is Remus Lupin, a gifted student and Prefect for their year and House, which was Gryffindor. The one on the far left was Peter Pettigrew, murdered ten years ago by the last, Sirius Black, who also betrayed your parents and you to He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named."

 _How odd. Given what I've seen here, so far, these people don't seem capable of betraying close friends, as these four obviously are. I'd better look into this._

His mother appeared with three people herself, one boy and two girls. McGonagall introduced them as Severus Snape, now Potions Master at Hogwarts, Alice Longbottom née McKinnon, tortured to insanity, and Andromeda Tonks née Black, married to a muggleborn barrister.

After reviewing the photographs some more, and noting things to look into, Harold declared "You have provided proof of your claim, Deputy Headmistress. The people you have named as my parents resemble me more closely than those I have thus far called by that title. Despite being born with the name Potter, I would still prefer to be known as Harold Baratheon. It is what I have become accustomed to using. Unless the Potter family has established titles here?"

The woman paused, possibly wondering if she could conceal this from him. She decided to trust him with it.

"Very well, Mr. Pot-I mean Baratheon. Your father came from a fairly long line of wizards, which has held the title Viscount of Shropshire for the last seven centuries. You cannot, however take up that title until you come of age. I understand that you may not be at risk of it going to your head, but that is the law."

That part Harold understood. It would not do to ennoble someone who hadn't proven worthy of the honor. He wished he could use the title Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, but this would be a good substitute. _I just have to find a way to speed up the process. Hmm…I wonder…_

Having established that he was who she thought he was, McGonagall then turned to the subject of Hogwarts.

"Now that that is settled, Mr. Baratheon, we must discuss your schooling. You are a wizard."

Harold nodded.

"I have known that for some time. I presume that Hogwarts was established to train wizards and witches, which I assume are female? And while we are on the subject, how did you get my name? And how am I to pay for this education, assuming that I accept it?"

The teacher confirmed his theory.

"Yes, witches are what we call women who can do magic. Your name was submitted to us by your parents shortly after your birth, along with full tuition payment. They left a trust vault behind to cover your school supplies, lodgings, meals, and incidental expenses at Gringotts Bank. I have your vault key with me."

She pulled out a small gold key from an interior pocket of her robes and handed it to him. It felt rather light in his hand.

"Gringotts will be our first stop, and then we will acquire your robes, trunk, and other supplies." Then she turned toward the door on one side of the tavern, as if to lead him to this bank.

Annoyed that she had avoided what he considered the most important question, Harold drew himself up to his less-than-usually impressive height and asked, very formally.

"Deputy Headmistress, since you do not seem inclined to address the central issue on your own, I must demand an answer. What exactly makes you think that I have agreed to study at Hogwarts?"

The aging educator stopped in her tracks, and turned to stare at him dumbfounded. _I suppose refusing to study at Hogwarts is unheard of. I shall have to look into why that might be, as I can think of several rational explanations for such behavior, or lack thereof._

She then answered him with great pride, as if he had somehow unknowingly insulted her.

"Hogwarts is the premier school of magic in Europe, and well-known throughout the world as a high-class establishment, producing graduates of superior quality than other schools. How else would you learn to control your abilities? Our curriculum will prepare you best to live in the wizarding world."

Harold thought about that, and dismissed most of it as the sort of exaggeration he'd heard from the many merchants in Lannisport and Casterly Rock. He couldn't blame her for it, because she was Deputy Headmistress and thus somewhat obligated to promote attendance at Hogwarts, but it still meant very little to him.

"I'm sure you think it is just so, but I require more solid proof. Do you have list of graduates and how successful they have been in their lives?"

"I'm afraid that information has been restricted to protect the privacy of our citizens. The first such law was passed in Anno Domini 1436, and the latest in 1878, also Anno Domini. For your reference, today's date is the fifteenth of June, Anno Domini 1991."

Her answer was less than satisfactory, but Harold knew that getting around laws without an existing accessible power base was quite difficult. The only thing of that description he knew he possessed in this world was his hereditary title, which he could make no real use of for several years. He was woefully ignorant of his resources in this world. _I'll just have to correct that. Whatever would Grandfather say if he found out about this, assuming he didn't go mad first?_

After resolving to read up on as much of his House's history and wealth as he could, he returned his attention to the Deputy Headmistress. He knew that he was currently unable to make his way home, and that he would need her help in discovering one.

"Very well. Lead on, then. A visit to this Gringot's would be the best place to start."

He lightly fingered his gold key with one hand as the woman preceded him out what looked like the back door of the Leaky Cauldron. _What in the name of the Seven are they doing using gold for a key? Surely steel would be less costly? This points to one of two things: either there is some magical reason to prefer the more expensive material, or the constant use of magic has supplanted their reason. I really hope it's the second one; it's so much easier manipulating simpletons…_

On the other side of the door there was a walled brick courtyard. Professor McGonagall strode up to one wall, pulled out a stick approximately the length of his underage forearm, and tapped a specific brick with it. She made of show of counting three up and two to the left to it using a metal cylinder of some kind as a reference, presumably so that he could find it on his own next time.

Then his astonishment finally overpowered his self-control. The brick wall shrinking back to open an archway was not too difficult to comprehend, even if he wondered how the now-folded away bricks would fit in that small a space. No, he was gaping at what lay on the other side.

It looked like any random market street in King's Landing, somewhat restricted space, shops with displays of merchandise in view of the public, and the general style of the buildings. But the magic was just so showy and flashy that he didn't even register the familiarity of the other bits for nearly a minute. Brightly-colored bursts of light and flame and smoke broke out everywhere he looked, owls and cats and other beasts swooped overhead or scurried along the ground, and everyone in view wore such vivid colors it almost made his own formal wear seem almost dull by comparison.

His guide cleared her throat, and Harry gave way to Harold almost immediately, his mouth snapping shut with a click as he reined himself back in. The severe woman seemed amused by his reaction, and perhaps just a bit relieved. _Perhaps she was disconcerted by my formality earlier, and is glad that I still have some child-like reactions. Hmm…_

The two then set off down the now-revealed Diagon Alley. She pointed out some of the stores to him, informing him how useful he'd find them in the coming years.

Eventually, they came to the tallest building Harold had yet seen in this new world. It was made of white stone which gleamed in the sunlight, and looked much more impressive than all the wood and dull stone establishments they'd passed. He climbed the shining steps behind his guide all the way to a set of gold doors, which would not have looked out of place at Casterly Rock, had any of its Lords not decided against the expenditure.

Standing in front of the door on either side were two of the strangest creatures Harold had seen. Under the very familiar steel-looking armor suits, they had the stature of children no more than nine or ten Namedays, with wickedly-sharp teeth and pointed ears.

"They are called Goblins, Mr. Baratheon," Professor McGonagall explained, having noted his interest. "They operate and guard the Bank, which is their sovereign territory. Be very careful when dealing with them, as they will not hesitate to take advantage of you in any way they can. As all of your accounts can only be accessed under the name of Harry Potter, I recommend you do not mention any other name in the bank."

Harold had already grasped one of her pieces of advice from the visibly high quality of the guards' weapons and cruel expressions, but appreciated the confirmation anyway. Then the doors opened, and the elderly witch and young wizard stepped over the threshold.


End file.
